Page 21 of Christmas at Hart's Ridge

“It’s not the double standard! I don’t care about that. I mean, I do, but it’s not like I’m not used to it. It’s…whatever.” I waved my hand dismissively. “But you kissed me to teach me a goddamnlesson? That really pissed me off. That’s not what kissing is for, Luke. I don’t want you to kiss me to prove a point. Kissingisthe point.”

“And that’s how you want me to kiss you,” he surmised. “Like the kiss is the point of everything.”

“Yes,” I said, without thinking.Shit. My cheeks heated. “I mean—”

His grin was pure wolf. “Hell, Red, I can do that.”

My brain glitched at the nickname. Pretty unoriginal, calling a woman with red hairRed. Except…it wasn’t. Not for me. No one had ever called me Red in my life. Red was a nickname for women who embodied the color. Bold, wild, untamed. That wasn’t me. I was demure and elegant. Dainty, according to one review in the New York Times, despite my hard-won muscles.

I stared at him, mesmerized by my reflection in his sunglasses. It wasn’t what I was used to seeing. Gone was the prim ballerina with her perfect bun. My hair was braided, but the wind had caused several strands to escape and blow around my face and my cheeks were flushed. Ilookeda little bit wild. Like someone nicknamed Red.

He wrapped my braid in his fist and tugged, causing me to take a step closer. He tugged my hair again and my head tipped back so I was looking up at him. With his free arm, he hauled me against his chest, my feet dangling a foot off the ground.

And then he kissed me. Slow. Easy. Like he had all the time in the world for this, despite the fact that he was supporting all my weight with one arm. He rubbed his lips against mine, coaxing them apart, and slid his tongue into my mouth in a lazy, sensual glide. I fell into the kiss like I was sinking into a warm bath. Found the rhythm and melted against him.

When he eased me gently to my feet, releasing my braid from his grip, I blinked up at him.

“There,” he said, “how was that?”

I tried to scowl but my lips flat-out refused to do anything but smile. “That wasn’t another lesson, was it?”

“Strictly pleasure, Red.”

His words made me feel all glowy and warm. I suspected he could see that all over my face because his lips quirked and he gave my braid another tug and kissed me again. Just a quick brush of his lips against mine.

“You doing Roan Mountain?” he asked. A valid question since the trailhead split in two directions.

“Yeah. I should…I should get going,” I said reluctantly. I would have rather spent the next few hours right here kissing Luke instead of hiking.

His gaze tracked over me head to toe and he frowned. “Oh, no, you don’t. Too dangerous.”

The gooey feelings evaporated. Swear to god, this man was going to give me whiplash. “I don’t recall asking your permission, Luke. Let me guess, you think it’s stupid to risk hurting myself again when I only just got clearance to dance? I already got that lecture from my mom this morning, thank you. I’m not in the mood for another one.”

“Now, hold on a minute. No point in storming off mad and making me bring you back,” he said. I pretended my belly didn’t flutter at the notion. “I didn’t mean it was too dangerous for you, personally. I meant it was too dangerous for anyone dressed like that. It snowed up there two days ago, thawed out some, and then froze overnight. The trail is straight ice. You need crampons.”

“Oh.” My righteous indignation fled. I had never done a winter hike before, but I had assumed it wasn’t any different than an autumn hike. Just colder, maybe. “I don’t have crampons.”

“I have a spare pair.” He glanced down at my boots. “They should fit you well enough. I have trekking poles, too. They’ll help you keep your balance.”

I blinked. He was going to help me? That was the opposite of what I expected. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He grabbed the crampons and poles from the cab and then squatted in front of me. He patted his thigh. “Foot, Red.”

Oh, god, why was I blushing? But I gave him my right boot, placing it on his thigh. He adjusted the rubber straps of the crampon around my boot and then I switched to my left foot.

He glanced up at me while he fiddled with it, trying to get it just right. “You have good balance.”

I laughed. “Ballerina, remember?”

“Right.” He gave my calf a light squeeze and then stood. “That was how you broke your ankle?”

“Fracture,” I corrected. Like it was an important distinction.

He raised an eyebrow. “Either way, you got hurt from ballet. Not hiking. Your mom isn’t worried about you getting hurt again from dancing?”

“Oh. That.” I blew out a breath. “It’s complicated, I guess.”

He shrugged. “We’ve got time. Five miles, on ice and snow. I figure that will take us two hours or so. Maybe three.”

---